I lean over, holding my breath while I listen for hers. Bee stung lips make barely a quarter moon on her delicate face. I look down at her with tears in my eyes and all the love in my broken heart. The gentle hillock of her cheek has given way to a cheekbone no longer buried under baby fat. Her face holds contours yet to be formed, over time she does not have.
I still wonder what she might have grown up to look like, how she might have spent more days. I wonder about the minutiae, mostly. Would she have always liked dogs, to dance, pizza for dinner. What about shaving her legs, shopping for school clothes and bathing suits, what about sleepovers and hair straightening techniques. I wonder about these and thousands of other things, questions to which we’ll never know the answers, and questions I may someday not even permit myself to ask. I do not, however, question our fortune to have this time with her.